McAllen gave Leah a long and ambivalent look which made her uncomfortable. He said nothing. Sensing the tension, Bessie snagged Roman's sleeve and gave it a firm tug.

"You come right back in dis house, Roman. Least you can do, if you won't go back to bed like you oughts to, is to fix Marse John a drink. Caint you see he's come a long ways and needs some refreshment?"

It was a clever ruse and got Roman off the porch, because the idea of doing something useful appealed to the old man. With Bessie and Roman gone, McAllen turned to Leah with a taut smile in place.

"What is it that you want to say to me, darling?"

"It concerns Roman. He's perfectly useless, John Henry. He can't do anything anymore, and he's just. . . well, he's just in the way, that's all. I know you can't sell him. He's a freedman, and even if he weren't, no one would give you a dollar for him, he's so old and decrepit. But at least . . . Why are you looking at me like that?"

McAllen's expression was stormy. He'd thought perhaps Leah was going to confess her indiscretions in Austin, or at the very least make the effort to manufacture excuses. Instead, she was suggesting that he do away with Roman, of all people!

"I hope you're not serious," he said. He spoke softly, barely above a whisper, and with no inflection.

His tone of voice gave Leah pause. She knew the signs. Her husband's hold on his temper was slipping, and his temper, when unleashed, was a terrible thing to behold. Mortal dread chilled her to the bone. John Henry was acting even colder than usual. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Her conscience tormented her. Perhaps he had heard about. . .

Sudden, irrational anger seized her, and she threw caution—what little she possessed—to the wind. "Perhaps there isn't anything that can be done about Roman," she conceded. "But you can get rid of Jeb, and I insist that you do so."

McAllen's eyes narrowed. Jeb was Grand Cane's overseer. He was also a slave. Black overseers were rare but not unheard of, and McAllen trusted Jeb implicitly.

"And why do you insist?" he asked.

"Because he is insolent," she snapped back.

"You mean because he doesn't like you."

"Whether a nigger likes me or not is of no concern to me! But I do expect him to show me the respect which is my due."

McAllen drew a long breath, trying to calm himself. "First it was Joshua. Now Roman and Jeb. I would not send Joshua away, and I will not get rid of the others, either. Jeb is honest and hardworking. The other hands trust and respect him. Besides, I cannot afford to pay a white man to be overseer here. I do not have a thousand dollars a year to spare."

"I think George Taylor would come back for less than a thousand."

"Taylor?" McAllen's laugh had a harsh ring, and Leah didn't like the sound of it at all. "Yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Why, John Henry, what do you mean?"

"You know very well what I mean. Don't make me say it."

Leah's cheeks lost their color. "No. Don't say it."

"George Taylor will never again be employed at Grand Cane, I can assure you. He was too distracted to do his job properly. If you see him again—and I am fairly certain that you will—you may tell him that if he is entertaining any hopes of returning, he should give them up. In fact, he would do well to make sure his shadow does not fall upon my property."

Leah stormed past him and reached the door just as Roman emerged from the house with a glass of Old Nash in hand. In a fit of spite, Leah struck the glass from the old man's grasp. Then she fled into the house. Roman stooped to retrieve the glass, but McAllen beat him to it.

"I's sorry, Marse John. I done spilt your drink."

McAllen shook his head. He knew it wasn't the spilled whiskey that old Roman was really sorry about. No, Roman felt sorry for him because he was married to a spiteful, deceitful vixen.

"Well," said McAllen, with a rueful smile. "Home sweet home."

"Yes, suh. I'll get you another drink."

"Don't bother. I need to go talk to Jeb."

It was well after dark before he returned to the main house, having spent more than an hour with the Grand Cane overseer discussing what needed to be done on the plantation in the next few weeks. He went to his study and had a couple of stiff drinks and sat brooding by the fire that crackled in the blackened hearth. When the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall struck midnight, Roman slipped in to find him asleep in the chair. The old man removed McAllen's boots, and McAllen stirred but did not awaken—the long journey and the Kentucky bourbon prevailed. Stirring up the fire, Roman covered McAllen with a quilt he had thought to bring with him. Then he stood there for a moment, gazing with rheumy eyes at the man he loved as he would his own son.

"You be fine, Marse John," he whispered. "Yes, you be fine. De one de Lord made jis for you, she be right nearby. Only you'll walk a mighty long road 'fore you find her. Yes, suh, a mighty long road. But you'll find her, God willin'. Den ever'thing be fine. Jis fine."

With a mournful shake of his head, Roman silently left the study.

Chapter Four

The next morning, at the crack of dawn, and before Leah had risen, John Henry McAllen rode the gray hunter, Escatawpa, down the river road to the town of Grand Cane. As usual, the Seminole, Joshua, was his silent shadow. McAllen had grown accustomed to finding Joshua there every time he turned around and, on more than one occasion, while in pursuit of Comanche raiders, he'd been glad to have the Seminole youth along. Joshua's entire existence revolved around one thing: keeping McAllen out of harm's way. It was a case of quid pro quo—McAllen had saved Joshua's life, and now Joshua was committed to repaying the favor ten times over. McAllen had not proposed such an obligation, and he could not release the Seminole from it, either. He had no way of knowing whether Joshua would ever consider the debt paid in full.

The blue norther had blown through, and the day was sunny and pleasant. The ride was an enjoyable one, too. This was pretty country—gently rolling grassland interspersed with clumps of oaks and hackberries and cedars as well as thickets of wild plum, called "islands" in the local vernacular. Along the river grew cypress and live oak, often festooned with Spanish moss. The trees were alive with chirruping of birds, and male prairie chickens hidden in the tall grass inflated their orange air sacs and made booming sounds to attract the hens. Turtles and alligators sunned themselves on sand spits and old logs in the river. Armadillos and javelinas rustled unseen through the thickets. Mississippi kites darted through the air in a relentless search for a rodent meal.

Normally, McAllen would have seen all these things, and more. He had made a habit of paying close attention to his environment. A man hunting Seminole braves in the bogs and thickets of Florida learned to do that—or he perished. But today McAllen was lost in thought. He couldn't free himself from gloomy reflection concerning Leah, Grand Cane, and his future. He loved his home, and yet he could not bear to live there any longer. Now, that was a fine state of affairs!

The town of Grand Cane had sprung into existence three miles downriver from McAllen's plantation. The six leagues of land which a grateful Texas had bestowed upon McAllen had been more acreage than he could ever use, and he had offered every Black Jack who rode with him a full section—640 acres—if he chose to stay. All but a few had opted to remain in Texas with their captain. Some had gone to Mississippi and brought their families back.